There is Something about Wayne
by Lady Kefka
Summary: Something's different. It's pointless to find a name for it, but it makes Jerome's blood boil and his brain go wild. Almost like he's about to detonate a bomb that will paralyze Gotham's entire subway system. The pulse of the city trembles under his fingers, and it looks like it's about to bite. Too bad Jerome has never been fan enough of muzzles to care. Character Study, Ep s03e14


_You've got me shaking from the way you're talking_  
 _My heart is breaking but there's no use crying_  
 _What a cyanide surprise you have left for my eyes_  
 _If I had common sense I'd cut myself or curl up and die_

 _Sticks and stones could break my bones_  
 _But anything you say will only fuel my lungs_

\- Get Scared, _Sarcasm_ –

* * *

Jerome is delighted by how well the white makeup covers Bruce's face.

It holds onto the pale flesh of his cheeks without transition, almost as if something were to greedily suck in the paint. Tears? Sweat? Both? Jerome can work with the idea of parasitic adoption; it differs little from how reality is made. His reality in particular.

With impatience itching at the back of his scalp, he watches as a cheap doppelgaenger of King Thrushbeard dabs final accents underneath Bruce's eyelids. The eye-liner is a dark contrast, but not as dark as the boy's slightly dilated pupils. Caging infinity in their depth they look in the mirror. Thrushbeard – Jerome likes the name too much to only use once – completes his work with two curved tears and bluish glitter spreading over dense brows and smooth temples.  
Bruce Wayne, the child of murdered parents, now reminds of someone who's been wandering around the menagerie of winter for ages, and got lost on his way. Frozen to death, a resignated expression on his face and ice crystals in his hair; a ghost without past or kinship to mourn him.

He's got nothing. He is nothing. He is still malleable.

It's what Jerome likes best about costumes – they offer you a new veneer when you're no longer who you were made to be.  
Identity is just another trap society puts you in, a niche where they place the body. The brain is plunged inside neatly trimmed heads, souls locked down in a safe of bones and constitutions. All of this secured by a combination which nobody can think of, for the trouble of knowing would hamper their capability to conform to the order they've been given.

Jerome has never been a friend of order. And God, how much he hates commands when they're not his own.

Thrushbeard carefully rubs a last pinch of powder over Wayne's lips. Bruce jerks when being touched in this area, all pride aside. An expression comparable to shock widens on his face as the man's thumb lingers inches above the plump bend of flesh, drawing closer.

Wrinkles form on Jerome's clamped forehead.

"That's enough," he hisses, each word accompanied by the rumble in his throat.  
Since Galavan bequeathed him the ugly cut on his windpipe, breathing has become troublesome in a way. If he had been asked to describe the feeling, 'lining his lungs with sandpaper' and 'gargling with razor blades' would have come close to it – but there's no one asking so he keeps these thoughts to himself.  
The carnival's racket silences Jerome's steps on the gravel as he walks up behind Bruce, eliciting a surpressed shudder from the kid as his presence becomes known. Thrushbeard made him pretty – no, prettier. He couldn't blame him for that if he wanted to.  
He surveys Bruce up close. If the boy panics, he does his best to hide it. His eyes bore into his own reflection, refusing to acknowledge Jerome's silhouette standing beside. Hands folded behind his back, he bends forward with a narrow smile, chin hovering above the kid's lean shoulder. He sighs, aware of the warmth of his breath sending an unpleasant tingle down the other's neck. He'd love to see if the hairs there stand on edge.  
„You don't make a very funny clown", he growls.  
„My apologies I don't meet your requirements," Bruce says curtly. His voice is liquid ice, bathed in the incorrigible defiance of a spoiled youngster who doesn't know where his place is yet – at least not in a place like this. Jerome's smile rips open to a grin, grinding at the unnaturally red corners of his mouth.  
"Don't get cocky, kid." He loves it when Bruce gets cocky. "Never said anything of that sort..."

He tilts his head in a playful manner. They make quite the couple in the mirror image. A too human Mephisto and a Faust demanding freedom instead of youth.  
The pose has a familiar touch, too. They had stood like that back at the benefit; Bruce in front, facing the crowd, he behind him, an arm wrapped around his chest, ready to coordinate and thwart each movement like a puppet master. It's strange how fresh Jerome's memories seem to him only to discover they've happened years ago. He calls him kid, yet can't pretend time hasn't passed them by.  
He used to bend lower. In the past, Thrushbeard would have spread color on a much more childlike, almost contourless profile. The boy has grown, got big, and with his growth, brooding and darkness have begun to dominate his hostile gaze.

However, nothing of this changed his upright defiance at the centre of death to date. Jerome recognizes it with a strange touch of satisfaction as he pulls out his pocket knife and glides along his throat. The adam's appel bulging there is so familiar and foreign to him as the rotten smell of his mother's perfume back in his circus days. In the cold glow of the chain of lights winding around the mirror's top, the scar he left there glows for attention. A sparse, reddish line, pleasantly distorting the otherwise undamaged skin.  
"You do meet my requirements - you only need that certain something. A highlight – a second head, if ya catch my drift. But I doubt your delicate limbs could keep the balance." He giggles. Bruce is silent, keeping a close eye on the sharp silver edge smoldering in the light. Jerome watches the weak ascent and descent of his carotid artery beneath his flesh and feels the sudden urge to press his tongue against it, check whether or not the throbbing's pace surpasses his accelerated breath. He does no such thing. He'll have plenty of time for these games later on. In the dark, when no one else is looking, all of this will seem like child's play.

The knife rotates in his hand and swiftly pricks to the side. It sinks into Thrushbeard's lower abdomen like butter. Just the tip, not too deep – he doesn't want to ruin his shoes nor allow a splash to destroy Bruce's precariously prepared baby face because that's his job. Thrushbeard howls like a puppy thrown into the well and falling on top of some miserably moaning kittens.  
"Don't be a baby", Jerome scolds. Thrushbeard presses a hand to his mouth and covers the wound with the other, tears of pain and incomprehension sticking to his still young eyelashes. Tongue clamped between his lips, Jerome holds the knife in front of Bruce and runs his index finger over the blood-soaked blade.  
"Hold still," he tells him. His tone is mockingly soft. Bruce, suprisingly, does as he's told. The clown feels every fiber of the narrow body tense with apprehension. He takes the chance and nestles unbearably closer.  
For someone who almost completely consists of skin, bone and hair gel, Bruce emanates a considerable amount of heat. Jerome smells the first batch of sweat drying under his armpits. The fragrance blends seamlessly into the residual odor of his body. Money, _more_ money and… sandalwood?  
With the frivolous drama of an artist, he drags a red arch across Bruce's quivering lips. Blue eyes instantly crown with a veil of loathing. Jerome chuckles quietly.

"There we go. Now you're ready."

Thrushbeard steps aside and vomits on the grass.

Jerome's smile crumbles. He scrunches up his nose as the acrid smell of bile rises off the earth.

"Let's go for a walk, Brucie. This reminds me too much of home," he says gruffly. His hand slips down Bruce's back, coming to a hot halt over his coccyx. He wipes the knife at the edge of the table before sliding it back into his jacket pocket. "I've tried so hard to set up the perfect show. A shame if ya missed any of the attractions I've put up for you anyway." He pushes him past the mirror, clawing his gloved nails in cashmere.  
Busily, he channels him deeper into the tight web of the carnival he lifted from the remains of an old amusement park, having his lackeys knock the dust off plastic tags and Ferris wheel seats.  
All of this because spoiled little Wayne demanded a show. And how much he regrets every single second of it now. Silence engulfes him, but Jerome sees it in the tremendous effort he puts forth to keep a straight face. He sees everything.  
It amuses him. Greatly.

Two of his armed men line up a few feet behind them so Wayne doesn't plan any mishaps. Jerome thinks it screamingly funny that they are so utterly devoted to him, even though he just slit one of them's stomach minutes ago, but he leaves them to it. What's he got to lose? If they get on his nerves, he can still take them apart in front of a cheering crowd later. Their names may blur in his mind when it matters, but a face that's disappointed him he never forgets.

Reaching the innards of the carnival, lights beam through and tear the night's darkness they wander in, accenting the path with colours of blood and pus. The noise blurts in from all directions, bundled in front of the shooting galleries, waves of spitting and crying accompanying the merry-go-round. They see people posing as living dartboards as well as a slightly modified, much bloodier version of ring-the-bell. Bruce says nothing. He neither flinches nor swallows, seemingly numb to his surroundings.  
Only when a man's hoarse scream is followed by the squelch of a breaking skullcap, his gait varies slightly, urging Jerome to grip him harder as precaution. He doesn't want his fine boy to fall in the dirt after all.  
„Awesome, isn't it?" he asks in a chattering tone. Bruce saves the answer. His face is a beautiful sad leaf, his lips bloodless.

Jerome puts up with it until his growing impatience has him rocking back and forth on his toes.  
Admittedly, he'd appreciate a little more effort in their game. Where is the fire? The boldness with which the boy defied him in his Manor? His self-confidence, big as a mini-refrigerator? Silence just bores him. And when he gets bored, his brain comes up with... unsavory plans. He isn't choosy; a hollow shout of anger, a punch, the mere attempt to tear himself away despite the pistol barrels in their backs would be enough.  
Of course, if Wayne tries to do any of that, he'll cut his arm off. Someone in his reach might have a chainsaw or a chopper at the ready. Since horror icons like Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees have taken over the market, such sharp accessories seem to be a crucial part of the standard psychopath's repertoire.  
Not that Jerome's ever seen the movies. At the time when the cinemas were filled with people watching them, his mother and her stallion (Owen or Wilson? Unimportant, no one was ever better than the other) shot their very own film series – with him in the victim's role, of course. A lot of screaming, buckets of tears, snot and blood... a lot of physical effort, really.  
Jerome shakes the images off with an irate shudder. Bruce reacts with a side glance, pungent as an arrow. The glimmer of a string of light carelessly wrapped around a street lamp speckles his painted face with diamonds of red and green.  
"What's wrong? Did you see a ghost?" Jerome serves him a grim smile. If only it had been a ghost. Demons are much more familiar to him.  
„Look at that – the statue talks."  
„This is no answer to my question."  
"Can't remember I'd have to answer shit to you," Jerome says sharply. And wonders why he's condescending to even discuss with his hostage. Although, can he still call him a mere hostage? The effort would be too great for a rich patsy. 'Guest of Honor' is probably the more appropriate term for it. They should have given him a sash or something. A crown. Yes, a dainty little tiara.

The boy's gaze sticks to the clown like paste now, as if he were discovering it in the sun for the first time in his life. But it's just before midnight, and the moon is covered by clouds. Jerome purses his lips.  
"What? Do I have something on my face? You wanna touch the clamps? Everyone wants to, but I don't let them." Bruce tilts his head, unimpressed, looking at him as one might look at a rare, poisonous insect crouched behind glass. Then, he sighs. A devastatingly soft sound crawling up Jerome's neck like spiders.  
„Nevermind. Just thought I had a chance of escaping. For a moment, you looked human... well, almost." Jerome grunts. He fingers the brim of his hat, pulling it deeper into his forehead.  
"Little glitch in the matrix. We all have them, don't we?"  
"Probably," Bruce's voice is a clear echo in the ether. „Most monsters are human, after all."

Jerome stares straight ahead. His knife bounces in his pocket, yet he feels more defenceless than ever since his ressurection. It's a rather creepy experience to say the least.  
„Monster." he says, rehearsing the syllables on his tongue. He turns his head to look the kid over. "Not big on pet names, are ya?"  
Bruce shrugs his shoulders. They are sinewy shoulders with puny armpits, a straight spine in between. The latter can be cracked as easily as a herringbone with the right tools at hand. Jerome doesn't even have to dig that deep into his memory to know which one he'd take for the action.  
"What else would you call yourself, then?" Bruce asks, and disrupts Jerome's thoughts yet again. He sounds serious, always so goddamn serious. That's another thing Jerome can't stand. The boy doesn't seem born to joke at all.  
He swallows. His throat's drier than usual. It will always feel this way now, just as he will taste copper and metal behind his teeth whenever he runs and runs and his lungs start burning from stress. Apparently, some things cannot be extinguished even by resurrection. The scars stay, get bigger, uglier, more concise. Monsters probably have to be that way.

"A visionary," he says. Because something tells him, despite the aspect of being a monster and a lunatic and a son of a nagging, drunken whore, he's more than his scars dictate him to be.

Bruce freezes in his posture. Breaths pass in silence, his and Jerome's. Then, he throws his head back. And laughs.  
It's a bright, high-spirited laugh, one of which Jerome can't say whether contempt or disbelief prevails. He listens, baffled, which is a first. He's never seen Bruce Wayne laugh before, and, frankly, it terrifies him.  
He doesn't realize how his fingers wedge into flesh he isn't entitled to touch until the laughter dies down and a barely suppressed curse draws his attention. He's got him by the neck, the juncture between clavicle and thoracic vertebrae a delicate spot if handled cruelly. Fine-boned hands rise trying to push him off. Instead of relaxing the grip he reinforces it, watching Bruce clench the perfect white pearls he calls teeth. It makes him want to claw even deeper, dig to the very bone only to see them shatter with his agony.

„Why do you of all people laugh at me when I say what I think to be? At least _I_ know who I am."

Bruce's face has changed, has suffered tiny fractures in his cheeks and chin and Jerome thinks of the crystal owl he threw down in front of the fireplace and splintered into pieces. The boy stares at him, a wall of anger woven into the shallow aftermath of pain. Jerome feels the throb of a second heartbeat beating through his back in a way similar to his and he is amazed at how quickly the organ hammers at the sight of him. He knows the pace doesn't stem from fear, but bloodlust. It has to be bloodlust.

Maybe the boy doesn't joke. But he's surely not incapable of killing if pushed over the edge. No one is. Jerome's keeps this at the back of his mind when he forces him closer till their foreheads touch.

„Don't laugh at me. Ever. Again." Bruce just stares, desperate to keep the hate aflame in his watery eyes.

They've stopped in the middle of the path. Nobody cares. The spectacle around cannot compare to what happens between them, Jerome has realized that. There is this spark he felt at the benefit, back when his blade first ran over this pretty pink throat and left its work unfinished. Everything else is just padding for the emptiness in his chest he feels otherwise. The boy stands tall, juttes his chin and everything about him is so cursedly fragile that any display of strength can only come from a delusional spirit. But if that's so, why does he send a chill down Jerome's spine?

He wants to say something, wants to lash out, but can't. His head is empty and his voices are silent. The boy's wrath fills him up like a warm flood. He feels... at peace. What a curious state. He can't remember the last time he felt this way. Whether he ever felt this way.

"Get your hands off me. I can walk to the gallows on my own," Bruce says. Jerome scoops ladles of blue out of his ardent iris like a drowning man holding onto glaciers. He doesn't dream of obeying. Even if; he couldn't.

„Why should I?" With a trace of ecstasy in his too hopeful tone, and eyes that shine in a way no sane man is comfortable with, he ogles him. The smell of burnt cotton candy smolders in the air, rolling up underneath the folds of his collar, rotting. "Does it hurt you that much to be near me? Tell me." He pauses. "Or better, tell me how it feels to be you when you're _walking towards death_."

And suddenly something in Bruce's brisk gaze and austere features tells Jerome of dark days and a salt-wet pillow. It tells him of a shaking body and square-cut nails stabbing through the mattress because the skin they want to scratch raw is not within reach yet. He wonders how deep they would delve if he let them wander over his chest and reach for the heart he doesn't have.

Then, he remembers how Bruce Wayne lost his parents. That he lost them. He sees Galavan's superior smile coming out of the shadows, a phantom telling of the scene the newspapers have long since been panting for. It's no wonder that Bruce poses a rebel. He has nothing else left but his stubborness, and if his people have half a gram of brain mass at their disposal and guts on the trigger he no longer has a butler either. He's alone with a house full of magnificent vacancy and enough money to stuff himself with whenever he feels like it.

For a second, their eyes cross at the right angle, artificial light breaches in and Jerome finally sees the reflection of himself in them, a treat Bruce has denied him so bitterly. The red edges around his eyes gift his demeanor with an alarming vibe. His eyes lie deep in their holes, shining glassy and wild. It's a blessing in disguise Dwight hasn't cut them out too. Jerome would rather give a leg than be as blind as his useless father.  
Two staples above his left brow hump outwards and threaten to jump off the flesh although he put them back there twenty minutes ago. He's not laughing. His eyes narrow into slits, pulling the red with them.  
Is this a monster he knows? Frankenstein, maybe. He doesn't know what to make of it.

And for the first time, he looks at a version of himself in the depths of a soul that hasn't been corrupted yet. He can hardly believe such a thing still exists. _Still_ he repeats in his thoughts, like a prayer (as if he knew how to recite one). As always, screams and laughter fall out of the human thicket, the chaos of his hands and tongue pouring out like tar pits around them, but all seems flat and dull compared to the urging reality of his flesh, stretching over his body in agony with every step and kick he takes. He can hide it most of the time because he's used to pain and tears are a luxury he has no use for. But there's Bruce Wayne and he won't let go with that hell in his chest eating into him and building a home near the outskirts of his ribcage. It almost makes him feel like his old self again. Like it's staring back at him.

That's how Siamese twins must feel, Jerome thinks, sharing a heart, a lung, a life. Always inferior and in spiteful need of the other. He wouldn't know, of course. He never needed anyone.

He takes his hand off Bruce's back and Bruce opens his mouth to a crack of relief until his fingers sink back into the soft brown hairline like a ship's prow riving the sea. Still pulling, he kneads sloppy circles into the feverish skin under his hairline. He can't help it; he needs to feel the muscles strain there like ropes, and _oh_ , they do.  
"Forget it," he says, more to himself than to Bruce. An expression that defies definition has besieged his face. "Today, you belong to me. You wanted this show and I gave it to you. This," He gestures carelessly around them. "is your work, not mine. Not to mention you're tonight's headliner. No one will take that privilege from you, and you won't leave your seat until I say so. Nobody likes a quitter. Even your butler played his part."  
Long, breakable fingers clench into short, breakable fists. Jerome gets hot and cold depending on whether Bruce focuses on his eyes or his scarred lips and. The boy. Switches. Constantly. Whether he does it on purpose or simply cannot decide what to hit first, no one knows.

Something's different. It's pointless to name it since there is no word for it anyway, at least not in his fixed vocabulary, but it makes Jerome's blood boil and his brain go wild. Almost like he's about to detonate a bomb that will paralyze Gotham's entire subway system.  
When he gives in to this unknown urge and takes Bruce's face into his gloved hands, stroking the brushed flesh and peeling off white dust on leather, he actually does. The pulse of the city trembles under his fingers, and it looks like it's about to bite. Too bad Jerome has never been fan enough of muzzles to actually care if he gets rabies or not.

Magnetized, he inches closer until the tips of their noses practically touch. His pupils are wide, clear and bottomless. Bruce's pupils are the mud he sinks into.

He wants to break his neck. Here. Slowly. Truly. This expression of pure, unshakeable rancor is worth preserving in saltpetre, too good to be lost and too alive to maintain its goosebumps effect in rigor mortis. Jerome uses the pad of his thumb to rub along the twitching left corner of Bruce's mouth and immediately regrets he didn't apply Throttlebeard's blood more thickly.

"Come on, Brucie, don't be a spoilsport."

"I'm tired of your games," Brucie spits out. It's not broken, but close to, Jerome has a flair for it. The kid's breath (he's still a kid – he'll always be a kid to him, no matter how tall he gets) sweeps damply over his chin, isolated droplets of saliva just below his lower lip. The tip of his tongue rushes out and licks them up.  
"That's a pity," he says, curving his overstretched mouth towards the sickle leaf. "I think I'm starting to like you in earnest."

Bruce is paling under the make-up. His body begins to tremble, sweat forming on his forehead. Thoughtfully, the clown pauses. He could act being worried if he wanted to now. He actually thinks about it before discarding the possibility.  
Uttering a tsk he drags Bruce with him like a rapt shadow. „Y'know, you should show some gratitude for once. I'm giving you a present. I have poured my heart into this performance, I worked so hard - I'll even change clothes! You're gonna love the costume, I'm sure. You like red, don't ya? Everybody likes red."

Bruce does his best to stare through him, but Jerome isn't one to be easily ignored. He lets go of him but keeps his arm around his neck like a noose, half way hugging as buddies do – at least that's what they said in the magazines he used to steal out of boredom. "Enough dawdling, come on. We'll be late for the finale."

To his own surprise, Bruce doesn't fight back this time. They start moving and the noise regains some kind of meaning again.

He brings Bruce closer to the stands, the shooting galleries, the shabby attractions he's been given fresh spice and twist in mere hours. Targets on legs take their route while darts graze their arms and hips. As they go by, a tennis ball hits a woman so hard it knocks a tooth out of her mouth.

Jerome's mood blossoms like a crocus. He laughs, and his fans laugh with him as soon as he's within earshot.  
"Lovely, isn't it? A zoo with open gates; no cage that can't be cracked. No boundaries, no rules, no law!" His eyes glow, girded in an emotion that bears no title except for those who feel it. "This is how God must have created paradise."  
"You compare yourself to God?" Bruce asks. His voice has grown hollow. Jerome sighs.  
"Of course not. I'm _much_ better – I give my disciples the freedom to do whatever they want!" Bruce is silent at that.

They come to the lottery stall which has been converted into a temporary baseball facility. Teens with an excess of testosterone – or at least the illusion of it – shoulder their clubs and practice throwing. The target is a man in his 40s. He holds his wrists to his shining bald head and curls behind the counter into a small fat ball, minimizing the surface for being hit as much as possible. Liquid drips from his cheeks and no one can say if it's tears or sweat running down there. The sound of Jerome's gravelly laughter has him look up, a horrible gleam of hope in his gaze when he spots Bruce by his side. Everybody knows Bruce Wayne. He reaches out to him in begging. Bruce lowers his eyes in shame.  
Jerome notices. His lips thin out.  
"Hey, beanpole!" He waves one of the teens to him. _Beanpole_ runs immediately, saluting with a grin.  
"Yessir!" Solemn voice, deep for his age. Polished shoes. Red paint covers his face together with three black stripes drawn from the hairline to his angular chin. Middle class, most likely. Doesn't want to be recognized.  
Jerome gestures towards the man. "Take the pig to the pool. Looks like he could use a bath." Beanpole nods and calls his comrades-in-arms in for help. They break down on the man like the plague and drag him through the gap. Laughing, they pull him, push him, kick him till he's outside. Bruce latches forward, but Jerome holds him back by his collar like a disobedient puppy. It's not as easy as he thought it'd be – the boy has some fight left in him.  
„Calm down, kiddo," he scolds good-naturedly. "I want you to see this."  
"What are you doing?!"  
"Patience."

The man is dragged towards a stand sticking out from the others in size and function. It consists of a simple apparatus that encloses a quantity of water bounded by coloured wooden walls and a plank over their edge. The latter reaches into a basin's middle like a beige, angular tongue. A swarm of Piranhas cavorts right underneath. Humming, Jerome waits until the man is carried up, tied and pulled up by the lever. A target rushes into sight, explaining the balls lying underneath in a mint green glass bowl. His fingers tingle. They're calling for him.  
„Will you do the honors or shall I?" he asks Bruce. Bruce has stopped trying to tear himself away and looks at the gravel, knowing that at least two rifle barrels are pointed at him. His shoulders are shaking. It's not possible to say why exactly.  
Jerome clicks his tongue in disappointment. "Killjoy," he growls. He leaves the golden boy to his men and grabs one of the balls, weighing it in his hand. The prompt plea of the man above them strangles his nerves. He takes a step back, lunges – and loses balance when two hands press flat into his sides and _push_. He stumbles forward with a groan. The ball rolls into the mud. He turns around with a glare.

"What was that about?" He doesn't have to look hard for the culprit - he stands before him, arms crossed and his face made of stone.  
"If you want to kill someone, take me, not him," Bruce says icily. Jerome lowers his shoulders. He grinds his teeth.  
 _Cheeky brat_ , he thinks.  
Then.  
 _Crap. I_ _ **like**_ _that._

„...you pity him?" The question's unnecessary, the heroic attitude nothing but carved into his stern forehead. Of course he does. He's the good guy in the game, the white piece on the chessboard. Even though Jerome is more and more convinced that none of these roles suit him well enough, akin to a shoe that doesn't fit. The corners of his mouth twitch. _Cinderella, my ass. The Prince and the Pea's more like it._ His hands rest up on his hips, his head tilted.  
„Lemme get this straight – you seriously think this guy doesn't have any dirt on him?" Bruce's pinched lips speak volumes (slowly Jerome knows the ropes of interpreting his silence). He rubs the bridge of his nose, ignoring that all he does is pushing a skin fold up and down. „Well, you definitely grew up too sheltered. Has no one prepared you for the real world outside of your golden cage?"

Bruce's eyes flash. Even now, when his mouth is closed, Jerome can see how he struggles against hitting back at him. He wants to say something, swallows it. Jerome knits a brow. Well, maybe he'd been taught some of the rules. Maybe he posed as a rebel to wade anonymously through the south of the streets under the cover of darkness. Maybe he's got a special friend in his pocket that led him through the shadows for cash. However, they didn't lead him far.  
"Fine, then we'll catch up on a lesson –" Jerome snaps his fingers. "Guys, where did you find the fish snack?"  
"Some cramped office with a potted plant," roars beanpole from the right. His grin is broad and ordinary - acceptable, but not really Jerome's type. "About to fuck his secretary when we barged in." Jerome nods with the graveness of a police officer questioning an important witness. Somewhere behind him sound the usual whimpers and begging; to his left the murmur of potential new members for his cult.  
"Interesting." He holds out his hand. "Give me his wallet."  
No response. Jerome raises a brow. He's really not in the mood to be embarrassed by his henchmen in front of Bruce fucking Wayne. He snickers.  
"If anyone thinks I'm stupid enough to think you didn't clean him out," he growls, "he ends up in the water for dessert. After I'm done with him."

Two minutes later, Jerome browses through an ash-grey wallet made of worn leather. He only stops when a triumphant HA! leaves his throat and he dangles a family photo in front of Bruce's nose.  
"Let's see; Fatty is married. Three kids. Probably told them he was working overtime while taking care of the other skank. Guess somebody like that's called a dreamboat nowadays. I think that's worth a jump in the water, don't you?"

"That doesn't give you the right to kill him," Bruce replies sharply, even though – oh wonders do happen – insecurity has stolen into his tone. Nevertheless, he holds his ground. A puny Napoleon, his veins pumped full of caffeine, his eyes glowing with legal sense and misguided justice. It's causing Jerome migraine. He crumples the photo and throws it to the ground, then takes a second ball out of the bowl.

"Geez, you're difficult. Nobody has to give me the right. I take it. That's what freedom means."

"This isn't freedom. This is madness."

"Well I wouldn't fucking do it otherwise!" Jerome snarls. He grabs the ball tighter. Stupid kid. There he is, trying to explain life to him before he dies, and he insists on his point of view like a donkey. Why even bother? He's done enough. He's proved enough. He doesn't have the faintest idea.

 _... Ah, fuck it._

He throws the ball over his shoulder. It hits the wall, not even brushing the target. He nods to Beanpole standing next to the buzzer. One push and the piranhas attack the man's wobbly flesh in a mixture of teeth and greed. The boy's features derail, splintering at each corner and edge. Jerome takes in every millisecond of it.  
Before Bruce opens his mouth for a scream, a gun barrel presses against his chin.  
"Move and I shoot a hole through your tongue," Jerome says calmly. There's no doubt he means business this time. The gun shines like a silver dollar in his hand.

He didn't really want to use the revolver. Not right away. It seemed smarter to keep it as a trump card in case something goes wrong and he has to fire someone's kneecaps off to make a point; but in situations as these, improvisation is called for. How convenient that he's so good at it. And, to be frank, Bruce''s expression fluctuating between recognition and naked horror almost makes up for the deviation.  
It gives him a younger, refreshing punch line crouching behind the façade of the compulsive adult. Jerome might get used to luring it out. He could... get used to him. Possibly. With a chain around his neck. He hasn't owned a pet since he killed Lila and been taken to the loony bin. He kind of misses the dependence. He liked his snake. He liked company that liked _him_. Although this would hardly happen with Wayne, but he has a soft spot for animals that don't want to be tamed either way. He's one himself.  
His flow of thoughts cuts short when slender fingers tighten around his wrist and direct the gun barrel to a spot where the skin is thinnest and the blood rushes like a torrent.  
"Get it over with. Don't take out on others what you want to do to me." Bruce's words are a bit shaken, but no less authoritarian in their purpose.  
And Jerome can say with final certainty he'll never get a better hostage than this boy.  
Without escaping his grip, he strokes the cool metal of the weapon along the carotid artery, following its throbbing rhythm with attentive eyes. He furrows a brow, pretending to consider the option. He senses the penetrating presence of his lackeys like pitch in his lungs.  
"Tempting…" Honestly, that's exactly what it is. The barrel drops into the hollow shaping Bruce's clavicle. Jugulum, or whatever it's called. It reminds Jerome of 'Juggler', 'Juggler' reminds him of 'Harlequin'. The first harlequins of the Middle Ages earned their living with cheap tricks and jests. He asks himself what tricks Wayne would perform soon as he let him. Which of them would be deadly, which wouldn't. "But not my intention. Not with a bullet. That would be quite a downer."  
The barrel moves back upwards, tapping against beige lips. Disgusted, Bruce avoids the clown's burning gaze. "Since you, as the city's conscience, are so keen on repaying justice, I actually wanted to ask you who I should kill next. A guilty life for an innocent one, you may choose - one last wish, so to speak. Ain't I a generous bastard? Come on, praise me."  
Bruce wraps his arms around his waist.  
"No more murders. If this is my show, then I should be the only one suffering for it. Kill me." He pauses. „Just me, Jerome... please."  
Jerome looks at him. Bruce's decision doesn't irritate him, he likes it even less. The boy doesn't seem particularly guilty, even if he can beg just fine. Who taught him that? Jimbo maybe? Or is he a natural? Jerome doesn't rule anything out here.  
"Wow. You almost sound as crazy as me by now. You sure you couldn't fit in here? The position of personal assistant is still vacant. I… ehm, kinda blew the former to bits. He put my face on and stuff."  
Bruce has no words for the offer. Of course it's a joke, an extremely stupid one at that; the clown would never mean it.  
With dusty tongue he peers past Jerome at the basin in which the ragged remains of the man float. The need to slap him for this is great. Instead, Jerome lowers the revolver and roughly pats his shoulder as if in an attempt to cheer him up.

"Take it from me, kid; don't take it all so damn hard. His ending wasn't pointless - I mean, he fed the piranhas. If this isn't a successful integration into the natural food chain, I don't know what is."

"He had family," Bruce replies, as if this refuted any logical argument in the world. Bitterness screeches in his voice like chalk on a blackboard. Jerome resists the impulse to hit him a second time, biting the rosy inner flesh of his cheek instead. He tastes metal and the last crumbs of sweet decay.  
"Yes. Family he cheated on. What's that worth?" Bruce shakes his head.  
"Nothing you say justifies murder."  
"I ain't justifying anything."  
"Then why don't you just shut up and kill me, you son of a bitch!?"

If Jerome were a lesser man with a lesser sense of paranoia, he wouldn't have noticed the change in tone, but he did, and thus shouldn't be surprised that Bruce storms towards him, rage like dew on his eyelashes. He's also not surprised that Bruce pauses in mid-motion and a suffocated sound leaves his mouth, which could be ascribed as 'What?' to satisfy the annoying dramatics.

First, he stumbles, then he swings. Then his bones stir to mush. Irritation clear on his face he falls forward, his forehead slumping against Jerome's chest, the rest of his sinewy weight following behind. Quick-witted, Jerome holds him by his shoulders. Peering down he recognizes a tranquillizer dart boring its way through his collar and into the nape of his neck. Nevertheless, he forgets to breathe while he forces an unconscious Bruce into an upright position. A murmur shakes the small crowd of onlookers and whispers become loud, gathering at the edge of his consciousness like maggots around a weeping wound.  
"What the hell are you looking at? Do you want to go swimming too?" he yaps in their direction. Promptly, the noises minimize and some save themselves into the haze of terror. Frowning, Jerome turns his attention back to his self-proclaimed guest of honor.  
Bruce Wayne. Fainted in his arms. Well, if this ain't a headline. He purses his lips, tousles through nut-brown hair, tears at a few strands to test his reaction. Nothing. Not far from him a dart gun's being reloaded and he senses whom he owes the situation to.

"Johnny-boi, what the hell do you define as emergency again?" The expression on Johnny Frost's face remains stoic.

"He was gonna attack you, boss." Jerome looks at him. The guy next to Johnny slowly backs away.

"So what? He tried to grab my knife. I got a damn gun. You don't think the kid's bulletproof, do you?"

Johnny shrugs a shoulder. He rubs over the barrel before shouldering the gun on his back. As far as Jerome knows – or has taken in information as far as he was interested – he got it from his father, who's a passionate hunter. Well, was a passionate hunter, considering Johnny shot him with one of his own bullets this afternoon.

"You said-" Jerome waves him off.

"I KNOW what I said. Don't bug me." Another critical inspection of eggshell skin and make-up that wipes off his clothes. "So for how long exactly have you sedated him?"

"Half an hour. The narcotic is mild. Pa used it on small animals." Jerome snorts.

"Wonderful. As a reward, you may carry my prey to the tent." He looks at said prey one last time. The wrinkles on his forehead have smoothed and his little pink mouth hangs slighty open. He seems almost… peaceful. A weird look on him, Jerome admits.  
The sudden wave of reluctance about giving him away crashes over the clown like a blizzard. He grits his teeth, shaking it off by force.  
„Let him fall and you'll be the one eating your old man's bullets" he less but grunts to Frost as he hands him over. Johnny's face remains stoic, but he's especially careful when he puts the boy over his shoulder. He's sure as hell he'll have two bullets in his crotch when he so much as fringes a fiber of his turtleneck.

"Yes, boss."

The tent's six minutes away. Johnny Frost guesses these'll be the longest six minutes of his life, and he's right.

* * *

The tent is dry and draughty and far too small for Jerome's taste. It won't fit most of his cult, let alone having its members admire his performance in all its glory.  
However, as he is unable to shake an entire ensemble out of his sleeve, he must be content with what chance and the remainders of a travelling circus have thrown at his feet.  
Walking through the tent brings back memories of a home long gone. Hayley's Circus wasn't exactly brilliant, but they had a decent arena which this one clearly hasn't. In comparison, the dressing room's more spacious. Jerome's content with that. It's better than nothing.

A few feet away, Bruce Wayne lies with tangled legs and bound hands on a sparsely equipped dressing table and indulges in the fact he perceives nothing at all. Jerome almost envies him. He could have used blackouts like this a long time ago. To Bruce it's the only refuge he has left – what else is there? Death and torture and some more suffering in between. All sounds a little bleak to the average person.

Of course, Jerome isn't average.

Wind sweeps through the tent and into the boy's flattened curls, the frost carried within biting into his cheeks. His slender neck is a grace in the sad lamplight that falls over them like an impoverished sun. Jerome controls his hands before he can finally give into the desire to strangle him. It would have been a waste to do it earlier. It would be a disaster to do so now.  
Hands in his pockets, Jerome observes the rise and fall of Bruce's chest.

There is something about Wayne that drives him crazy for want of a better word. He talks so smartly, holds his head so proud despite all the garbage rolling off his tongue — it makes Jerome nauseous. On the other hand, he almost wants to keep him alive just to discover what other foolish philosophies he might recite given the chance. But these are dangerous thoughts and it would be a joke to take up on them because they'd drive his whole plan to ruin.  
And yet, what should be wrong with jokes in his line of work? Since when are plans sacred to him?  
Although he keeps a considerable distance from Bruce now, he still feels the pudding-like slant of his weight against him, like a block of stone squeezing into cement. He thinks about the trigger and how easily it would have given way under his finger. Bruce Wayne, rich brat, wannabe hero: Dyed, bathed, drowned in blue blood. Not necessarily fun, but the crowd would have enjoyed it anyway. The taste for blood hasn't changed much since gladiator fights in the Colosseum became a thing.

 _Then why don't you just shut up and kill me already!?_

Jerome goes to the wardrobe, chooses a bitter-red tailcoat and changes his gloves. Pants and boots should be somewhere behind the folding-screen. It better not be the wrong size, or heads will roll.  
He doesn't allow himself to accept any kind of reality in his previous offer. The sooner he kills Bruce Wayne off, the better.  
He has never been getting on well with any his peers, circus-related or not, nor has he expressed any interest in them; this doesn't have to change today, not tomorrow and certainly not in the future. The boy has too big of a mouth to deal with too. Jerome's patience runs thin quickly. He'd put him out of his misery before January at the latest.

Jerome puts a topper on his head and admires himself in the mirror. Yes, all fits perfectly.

„You ain't wrong. Why am I taking my time with you? That's unlike me," he says to no one in particular, winking at his reflection. He plays with the thought and all kinds of answers to it, draws lots in his mind, gets blank after blank. He also plays with the scenario of pushing Bruce off the table making him fall flat on his nose. He'd wake up and scream in pain – him lying as helplessly as a drooling baby in his cradle certainly has its appeal.  
Jerome threads his fingers through the bronze thicket of his hair. His clasps shine like silver teeth that eat him up from the inside, stretching the corners of his mouth until his lips are nothing more but a red bow. His own teeth are pearls stuck in a greyish-pink reef of flesh. What a face. What a smile. A real shame Bruce can't marvel at him like this before the spotlight blinds him. Instead, he travels in universes the clown has no access to.  
The kid's fidgeting. His eyelids flutter, his eyeballs constantly moving underneath as if they were trapped in a nightmare, which is funny in a way considering it's a nightmare who guards his sleep. It will be his last nap. The evening's climax starts in a quarter of an hour. Then he'll be tied to a stake.

 _Most monsters are human._

Jerome chuckles.

„Know what? I ain't got a damn clue either," he says, takes his hat and drapes it across Bruce's eyes so that the light of the cheap bulbs above won't disturb his sleep.

„Maybe it's because you wanna be a hero. Maybe it's because you think you're better than me. 'Saner' than me, but guess what, kiddo; you're just as crazy as I am to think there're good people in this rotten dump of a city." He feverishly licks his chapped lips. His eyes darken, revealing a new layer of madness that's still in need of nurture. "I'll prove you wrong. I'll prove them all wrong."

He leaves him then, cheerful and whistling, in search for his boots.

Bruce mumbles something under his breath, but Jerome's _Oh My Darlin' Clementine_ drowns it. Without consciously meaning to, his head tilts to the melody's direction, moulding a frown on his features.

A shudder in his heart, he dreams of smiling piranhas in a pool of green, their silent laughter sending bubbles of blood to the surface. A bat flies over the scene and imprisons them in his shadow.


End file.
